My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Just Needing To Be Heard
They sit at the bar or crowd around it. They seem so desperately in need of someone to listen to their dreams, dreams that may be quite ordinary or without hope of realization, but which to them are very real and above mere importance. And when they find someone, it is not significant that they cannot listen. They just have to hear.
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